Black and White
by Aya-kun Rose
Summary: Aya's out on his own when his worst enemy appears. But is everything as it seems? I started this as a sample to join an RPG as Aya, and then it just kept going. It's not done yet, but if anyone's interested, an end might be in sight.


**Black and White**

The perpetually bright lights of Tokyo always overpowered the stars, Aya noted. They were dim, secluded things, even out over the dark ocean. Although, he thought, the ocean was only comparatively dark; illuminated by numerous off-shore oil tankers and the rare glittering passenger ship. Aya looked out at them as he strode aimlessly along the waterfront. Maybe they were their own kind of stars in their own personal sky.

The night was long worn already, well on its way to morning. It had seen much, this night. Not the least of which was Aya and his team at work. A serious, private, unholy form of employ. Aya wished his life on no one, accepting that he would be one of the lone 'white hunters of darkness' forever.

It had been fairly routine. Omi hacked into the building's mainframe, disabling the security system, while Ken and Youji immobilized the personnel. Then they had stalked their way to their target and finished the job. Simple in and out mission. It should have already become memory to Aya, but tonight he held onto the look of terror as a propagator of evil faced his demise, and gripped the animal scream as cold steel spilt warm blood.

Aya stopped at an observation point which jutted out over the sea just a little farther than the rest of the railing. If he stayed there long enough, he would see the sun come shyly up from the edge of the world, bringing with it a new day full of life. Not for Aya, though. The memory of the night's mission would stay with him, even if only in the back of his mind with the countless others. Persia would contact them with fresh instructions just in time to replace the almost fully forgotten murder with a brand new one. Next time, maybe, Aya would be blessed with swift memory-loss.

He stared out into the quasi-darkness, knowing he would have to pretend at a normal life again tomorrow. Today, really. He would probably have to start opening the flower shop as soon as he returned. But he could never sleep on days like this; days when his trips to the hospital coincided with mission nights.

Seeing her made him soft. She made him remember a little of how it used to be when he was Ran. Killing to pay for her hospital bills made him feel guilty as he stood before her, and perhaps it was this guilt, this embarrassing yet neccesary obligation to his sister that caused him to remember his acts long after they had been committed. She didn't know what he was doing for her, she couldn't. But as he watched her lie motionless in her sterile white bed, he felt for all the world that she held him accountable for every life he took in her name.

Deliberately, Aya turned his back on the watery expanse. His eyes slid shut, and he concentrated on dulling the hateful memory by sensing the living world around him. The slight breeze in the walkway shrubbery. The continuous crash of the Pacific against the concrete barrier. The faint sound of birds practicing their serenade for dawn. The ever-increasing feeling that he was being watched.

Calm. Violet eyes fluidly became unsheathed. No tenseness, no blantant outward sign that his observer had been found out. Aya keenly scanned the path for any proof to support the feeling he had. A rustle to his side. He turned on the sound, fight or flight instinct bristling. An old, crumpled newspaper fluttered animatedly in Aya's direction. Nothing else.

Relaxing slightly, Aya watched the tattered paper get caught on the iron-work of the railing. Was this what he was now? Reduced to getting spooked by litter? This would be the day of all days to be paranoid. When he had so much on his mind, when he felt so--

"So open," a familiar, accented voice whispered in his ear.

Aya whirled on the American, stumbling a few steps back. "Crawford," he growled.

The dark-haired man, in contrast, moved away gracefully, on top of the moment. "I don't even need Schuldich around," he continued, ignoring Aya's greeting, "to tell me what you're thinking. Sometimes your thoughts actually do show through that mask of yours."

"What do you want?" He longed to feel his weapon in hand, but he had left his soiled gear in his apartment before returning to the night. He settled for the next best thing, sliding back into a defensive fighting stance.

"Maybe I'm just out for the night air," Crawford replied, adjusting his glasses.

Abruptly, the younger assassin launched himself forward, arm coiled to strike. As his arm extended, however, he found himself displaced in space and time. His target, so real a moment before, had vanished. Vanished, but not gone. Once again, another quick whisper in his ear, "You forget, I saw that coming," this time accompanied by a kick taking advantage of his awkward balance, sending him sprawling to the ground.

Aya hit the ground with his shoulder, rolling to avoid the next attack. One which never came. Gathering himself into a wary crouch, the swordsman quickly assessed his situation. Crawford stood leaning nonchalantly on the rail where Aya once stood. His back was turned; if Aya hadn't known better, he would have fit the part of an insomnia-stricken ocean-lover. He slouched with an aura of total relaxation, completely careless that his enemy was glaring blades into his back. It irked Aya that Crawford seemed to pass the Weiss leader off as a non-threat.

"You remind me of someone," Crawford spoke into the darkness, turning. Aya froze where he was, refusing to react. He could feel the eyes behind the glasses looking him over. He felt like some kind of specimen under a microscope. Aya stood in a single fluid motion, struggling to throw off the uncomfortable feeling.

"What do you want with me, Schwarz?" Aya repeated coldly.

"Abssynian." The word was spoken in such a way that made it sound like so much more than a code name. Whether it was conscious or not, Aya's full attention was on the man who had said it.

"To be perfectly honest, I want you dead," Crawford watched as Aya tensed, but continued on. "But now is not the time." The air of carelessness had faded into obscurity. Crawford was all death and business now, an image Aya knew well. In the back of his mind he felt this similarity, but suppressed it, not wanting anything to do with the man who protected the one Aya hated most.

Aya waited grudgingly for Crawford's next words. He knew that without his katana, he would be sorely outmatched if a fight ensued. The American was too fast, too cunning, and they both knew that Aya had never been one for hand to hand combat. Still, he couldn't run, either. No doubt the remainder of Crawford's group were lurking nearby, waiting for the chance to hunt the white assassin down, should he try to escape. Not to mention Aya's pride and inhuman diligence. He wouldn't run. He couldn't fight. Therefore, he had to wait.

There they stood, two figures based on utterly different purposes with so much in common. Two leaders of rival assassin quartets, calm, quiet, focused on their goal. Aya would have found this unnerving, had he chosen to think about it.

Crawford's hands were stuffed into pockets, and for a moment Aya thought he looked rather...human. "In case you're wondering, this isn't a trap. I'm alone, as I assume you are." At-ease Crawford had returned. He wasn't even watching Aya anymore. Instead, his head was turned, and he was looking vacantly down the walkway. For a moment it seemed as if that was all he had to say for the night. But he blinked once and returned his owl-like gaze to the red-haired young man. Aya stared back, beginning to feel nervous about the peculiarity of Crawford's actions. He certainly never had behaved so causually when they had met and fought before.


End file.
